The evening before, we had watched TV in the living-room. I had coffee, he had a beer. We saw a detective drama. “I’d like to look like her,” I said, meaning the police detective: the only mature woman ever seen on television. “But you don’t,” he said. I turned my head to look at him. Women’s faces collapse. Men acquire gravitas. ‘You have gravitas,” I said. He turned his head to look at me. “Where?” he asked, aghast. “Ha-ha-ha,” I said.
“I’m leaving at seven,” he said, switching off the TV.
“I’m going through to write.” I reached up and wrapped my arms round his neck, pressed myself as close to him as I could, we kissed, I rubbed my cheek against his stubbled chin. “I won’t be long.”
I went through to my study, stumbled over something on the floor then shuffled cautiously across to my desk and switched on the Anglepoise lamp. The computer was flashing. There was a glass of lukewarm water on the desk, I took a sip, went over to the hi-fi, switched it on and popped in a CD lying loose on the shelf, I couldn’t see which one. Im wunderschönen Monat Mai rang out around the room, but I switched it off. I can only listen to it full blast and no one would be happy about hearing that so late at night.
I woke the computer, opened a book and laid it down. I clicked, opened the document; it wasn’t even open, the last change was two days old and then I’d only corrected commas. I could always just go to bed. He might not be asleep yet. I was feeling the cold, I picked a sweater off the floor, pulled it over my head and began to read. Then I wrote.
This had seldom happened before, but now I forgot how late it was, I became so caught up in my own manuscript. Hours went by. My back was stiff when I looked up. It was grey light. The fjord was the most unbelievable colour; I got up and opened the window. A blackbird was sitting warbling on the ridge of the summer-house roof. It was the loveliest spring morning, but when you’ve been up all night and you’re stiff all over and your head is both brimful and totally blank, nothing seems right. I tried, and it really wasn’t like me, to figure out how to describe the fjord as it looked right then. The sun was rising and the water changed colour from moment to moment.
I didn’t want to wake Halland, he had to get up soon. I went to the loo, then staggered into the living-room and onto the sofa with a blanket. When I woke up, I knew I’d been woken by a sound, but not what it had been. A loud noise echoed inside me. I sat up and clutched at my hair, a gesture I knew from films, I collected myself, clasped the blanket round my knees. Was I scared? I don’t think I can say I was scared, that would have been crazy and prophetic, but I do remember feeling a little twinge of anxiety, an uneasy sense that something was wrong. Was it the door I had heard? Had it just been Halland going out?
On my way to the bathroom I looked into the bedroom where the bed was empty. So he had gone.
In the shower it struck me that I had seen his jacket and briefcase in the hall. So he couldn’t have gone. I turned off the water and called out to him. He didn’t answer, but now I was getting worried; I dried off, wrapped the towel round me as I made my way through the house. Through the little pane of frosted glass in the front door I could see someone standing outside, I thought maybe it was him and was about to open the door when the doorbell rang. “Just a minute!” I cried and ran into the bedroom, pulled off the towel, slipped on Halland’s dressing-gown, tied the belt as I went to the door.
When I opened it there was a flustered looking man on the step.
“In the name of the law!” he said, and his voice cracked. He raised a hand. “The time is 7.47 and you are under arrest … No -,” he gasped.
Translated by Barbara Haveland
